Someday
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. Part 1 of 3. “The heart that truly loves never forgets.” —Proverb


Calleigh didn't even remember how she had gotten here: who had informed her of the collapse (a nurse, maybe), who had driven her to the hospital (surely, she had been shaking too much to drive herself, although now she was starting to doubt even that), and who had told her to take the week off (probably Horatio, but he hadn't been here, had he?).

Details, she decided, should be the least of her worries.

She had been debriefed by Eric's physician, Dr. Miller or Tiller or something to that effect. She wasn't even sure why they had decided to talk to her; probably because she was the one who hung around his room the most.

She had learned two things: No surgery; possible permanent damage.

"Too much swelling," he had said. "Lasting effects, if any, can only be determined when he regains consciousness."

o o o

Calleigh sat with Eric, waiting and praying. Nobody had been able to tear her away from the ugly, green, plastic chair next to his bed, though she barely remembered who had tried. Her mind was blank, completely and utterly _blank_, even as she watched the labored rise and fall of his chest.

A few hours into the afternoon of his fifth day in the hospital, he twitched, and she perked up, paying careful attention to his subtle movements. Slowly, he came to. His eyes shuffled quickly from her face to the various monitors and tubes surrounding his fragile body.

"Oh, Eric… you're awake," she whispered, her hands moving to touch his shoulder. The reminder of the last time this scene played out hung heavily on her heart. He seemed a little shocked at her actions but did not protest. He looked around the room, mouth slightly parted in erratic breaths.

When she moved her hand to stroke his cheek, however, a flash of panic appeared in his eyes and he pulled away, straining. He shoved her reflexively, his hand jerking weakly in a pitiful attempt to maintain distance. He disturbed an IV line in the process and winced. She frowned and removed her hands from his face, feeling a brief sting in her heart. But she reassured herself that he was only disoriented from being unconscious for nearly a week. She tried to smile, but he was showing no reaction. His eyes were on her now; they moved from her eyes down to her hands, now resting on her lap, then back up to her eyes. They flickered, but there was nothing except confusion.

There was not a solitary hint of recognition.

"Do you need anything?" she asked carefully.

He searched her face for clues, but concentration seemed to tire him, so he closed his eyes and furrowed his brows for a moment. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, as he swallowed a few times in succession.

Without opening his eyes, he spoke the first word she'd heard from him in five days. "Who—" He stopped, his voice scratchy from disuse. He frowned and tried again. "Do I—" He opened his eyes but stared up at the ceiling.

"Do I know you?" he stuttered, his speech slurred.

She was glad he wasn't looking at her, because in a moment of uncontrollable fear, her whole body shook violently.

o o o

"He has amnesia," Eric's doctor told Calleigh the next morning. "Latest CT scan shows that the bullet fragment has displaced about three millimeters to the right." He showed her a black-and-white picture of a brain. A small white speck marred the left side. "Has he hit his head on anything recently?"

"No," she replied mechanically, trying to wrap her head around the jumble of words she was being force-fed. She stared at the nametag clipped to his breast pocket. Dr. Varkis. She wasn't sure where the hell she had gotten Miller or Tiller. She wasn't even confident that this was the same man from five days ago; she hadn't paid much attention to anything that day.

The doctor slipped the scan back into a large manila envelope and flipped through a small stack of sheets that he previously had clutched under his armpit. "Has he consumed any drugs or alcohol since his release? He was given very specific—"

"He hasn't broken any rules," she replied indignantly, even though she couldn't be certain. She should've watched him closer, she realized, feeling a slow guilt washing over her.

The doctor looked at her for a moment, as if contemplating something. Finally, he spoke again. "The brain is a very complex and sensitive organ, which makes each injury unique, but it seems that Mr. Delko is suffering from the effects of retrograde amnesia, which is actually rather common in patients with temporal lobe damage." He paused to give her a chance to absorb this. When she said nothing, he continued, "This means—"

"I know what that means," she interrupted harshly.

He smiled tightly. "Now would probably be a good time to contact his family," he said with practiced compassion.

She glared at him. "He's not dying," she replied. She had never even thought about calling his parents; she wondered if this made her selfish. She wondered why nobody else had either, why everyone had collectively decided it would be up to her alone this time. She didn't remember ever seeing Ryan or Natalia at the hospital, although truth be told, she had noticed very little of her surroundings in the past week. Everything had been an ugly blur. She did remember Alexx showing up a few times, but even then, she had appeared more worried about Calleigh's health than Eric's.

Calleigh understood being busy, but this was different. She was starting to get the feeling that the team had given up on him, which frustrated her beyond words.

She couldn't make the call though. She wasn't sure if Eric's mother would be able to handle knowing that her only son had severe brain damage, _really_, this time. His parents had gone through enough as it is.

The doctor shook his head. "He's not dying," he agreed somberly, "but there are important decisions to be made."

"He's not dying," she repeated, even though the doctor had just proven that he knows this.

He gave her a sympathetic look. "Still, this degree of memory loss needs careful monitoring—"

"I'll watch him," she offered quickly, even though she hadn't thought through the consequences of this, and she wasn't sure how she'd handle the emotional strain.

He frowned. "You have no blood, legal or marital relation to him. We've been courteous about your visiting rights thus far, but policy is policy: family must be contacted. The hospital will inform his family should you choose not to."

"I'll call them," she finally conceded. If the Delkos were about to receive devastating news, the least she could do was make sure it came from a name they were familiar with. At least it'd be a little less impersonal. She just hoped she'd be able to hold back her own tears.

o o o

The next time Calleigh entered Eric's room, he looked at her momentarily before briskly turning away, and it stung. Ignoring that, she made her way to the uncomfortable chair and sat down.

"My name is Calleigh Duquesne," she said quietly, her voice betraying her uncertainly. She almost expected him to sit up and laugh incredulously, tell her that she'd gone insane, because _of course_ he knew her name.

But he didn't, and her heart dropped.

"Calleigh…" he mumbled, but there was nothing familiar about the way he'd said it. He repeated her name, and it still held the foreign perplexity of the first time.

"Eric, you have amnesia," she explained. She fought the urge to laugh; it had sounded too surreal.

He wasn't inhibited by the ugly truth, however, and he did laugh. "Who the hell hired you to come in here and try to scare me? It was Robertson, wasn't it? That damn bastard."

She didn't know who Robertson was, and even though his voice sounded the same, there was a certain tone about it that she didn't recognize. She realized then how much of his life she still didn't know about.

She swallowed. "No, you really do have amnesia." It wasn't nearly as funny this time, only painful.

He shook his head and began to protest. "But I remember things. My name is Eric Delko, my parents came to this country in 1976 with my three older sisters, I work for the underwater recovery unit of MDPD—"

"No, you don't," she said sharply, cutting him off. She clenched her jaw to stop her chin from quivering. He had finally offered her a timeline, but the devastation nearly knocked her over. He hadn't met her yet then. He didn't know who she was.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. "If this is some sick joke, I—" He looked dizzy for a moment and fell clumsily back down. He groaned in frustration and tried again.

"Lie down," she said gently, watching him struggle with the simple task of sitting up. She swallowed, feeling the tightness in her throat. "Eric, listen to me. How old are you?"

He sighed, annoyed, but stayed still. "Twenty-four," he answered, closing his eyes.

She shook her head, feeling tears stinging the backs of her eyes, willing them not to fall. "You're not twenty-four."

"I'm twenty-four," he repeated indignantly.

"You'll be thirty-two come December," she said softly.

He laughed. "Shut up," he spat, opening his eyes to look at her. "Fuck you, you're lying."

She'd never seen him this angry at her, and it terrified her. "Eric—"

"Stop saying my name like you know me," he seethed. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them, and she detected hatred and resentment and such negativity that she had to look away.

"I _do_ know you," she insisted quietly, her heart aching. "I've known you for seven years." Somehow, verbalizing that fact made it more real, and she felt like she was suffocating, choking in gasps of air that were barely enough to sustain her. Her closest friend, lost. Not lost to death, which seemed like a serene escape now, but lost to memory. It hit her again and again, never getting any easier to swallow.

He didn't remember her.

He didn't remember the happiness they'd shared. He didn't remember how they'd grown together and always kept each other grounded. He didn't remember anything she's only ever felt comfortable revealing to him. Her trust, that she'd always guarded vigilantly, that she'd chosen to share only with a select few, disappeared down a dark abyss. She'd kill just to have him remember one fight they'd had, one disappointment, one pang of jealousy. Anything to prove to her that the Eric she had grown to love was still here with her.

And then, another wave crashes into her, as she realized that she'd never get a chance to experience that _thing_ with him. That thing that kept tugging at her heartstrings, getting increasingly difficult to ignore. The careful friendship that they'd built together, the cautious words of mutual longing, the pent-up tension: gone. In a world of anonymity, she was nothing but another stranger to him. That destroyed her, ate her up from within.

She'd lost him.

She should've known that time didn't stand still for anyone, especially not two people named Calleigh Duquesne and Eric Delko. When he had been shot a year ago, she should've stopped dancing around the issue, stopped covering it with flowery language that meant the same thing no matter how she had put it: maybe later.

Later was now. Later was _too_ late.

Regret was drowning her.

Eric coughed. "I don't know who you are, but I want you out of here," he requested calmly. The confusion was still there, but he was looking away now, and she wondered briefly if he saw the quiet ache in her eyes.

She didn't make any effort to move, so he grabbed her arm and pushed her roughly. His physical strength was laughable, but the meaning behind it stung so much that a wave of nausea washed over her. She needed to get out of this sickeningly sterile hospital room before she embarrassingly emptied the contents of her stomach onto him. When he croaked a bitter 'get out,' she shot out of her chair and disappeared out the door, nearly running into Dr. Varkis, who was on his way in to see Eric. She apologized briskly and hesitated a moment. She wanted to stay, wanted to be there for him when the doctor confirmed her story, but she was thirty seconds away from heaving.

Not today, she thought. She couldn't be strong for him today. She peered into the room once more and muttered a silent apology at his prone form.

She barely made it to the elevator before dry sobs overtook her body.

o o o

The next morning, Ryan finally made an appearance. Calleigh was sitting on a bench outside Eric's hospital room when Ryan approached her. She wasn't sure why she was actually there, since Eric had made it painfully clear that he didn't want to see her. Showing up at the hospital had become routine, however, and even though she had to stop at his door, there was an inexplicable comfort in being near him, no matter how screwed up everything had become.

Ryan gave Calleigh a tight smile and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I, uh, I didn't know how to—" He trailed off and frowned. "I know I should've come by earlier, but—"

"You don't have to explain," she said softly. As much as it bothered her, she understood why nobody had been around. It was too painful to see the blank look of confusion on Eric's face. It was selfish, but even she would've taken that in exchange for unlearning the knowledge that currently weighed down her shoulders.

Ryan pulled his hand out of his pocket and ran his thumb quickly over his nose, a nervous habit. "How is he?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"He doesn't know who I am," she replied numbly.

Ryan nodded solemnly. "I heard."

"From who?" she asked, trying not to get upset over people discussing Eric's condition, discussing _them_.

"From… just, around." He shrugged. "You were the one who said the lab is like high school."

She nodded slowly, then looked up at him. "Seven years and he doesn't know who I am," she said with a bitter chuckle.

"Calleigh, I'm sorry." He shifted his weight and patted her shoulder gently. "Come on, we'll visit him together."

She shook her head, staying seated. "He doesn't want to see me." And it hurt to say, so damn much. She felt sick again.

"That's crazy. Of course he—"

"Ryan," she interrupted, "he _doesn't know who I am_. He told me to get out of his room." She swallowed, feeling the tiny lump forming again. "Don't tell him I'm here." She laughed angry. "Not that it matters."

He gave her a sad look but nodded. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and walked inside. She couldn't hear anything, but the two men had little to say to each other, apparently, because five minutes later, Ryan reappeared.

She looked up. "How'd it go?" she asked quietly, knowing the answer. The look on Ryan's face told her enough.

He shrugged. "He doesn't sound like he wants to talk to anyone." He took a seat on the bench next to her and fiddled with his shirt. "Why are you still here?"

"I have the week off," she replied, even though that didn't answer his question at all and she was pretty sure her week off was over.

He took a quick look at her and decided not to push it. "When's the last time you ate something?"

She shrugged. "I'm not hungry," she replied. Her stomach grumbled.

"Calleigh." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "He'd want you fed," he said quietly.

"He's not dead," she snapped, a little louder than she had anticipated.

"I know that," Ryan replied sharply, defensively. He paused, and a choking silence filled the air. Finally, he stood up. "Come on, let's get you some lunch," he offered.

She didn't say anything but couldn't muster up the energy to protest. Silently, she followed him out of the hospital, to a diner a block away.

o o o

She was back the next day, back on that uncomfortable bench outside his room. She was waiting for something; an invitation, maybe. She was so desperate to see him that when nurses went into his room and left the door ajar, she'd peer through or walk by really quickly and try to get a look at him. Pathetic, maybe, but she wasn't about to actually go inside, so she'd take every glimpse she was offered.

She never did end up calling Eric's family, but someone must have, because his mother and sister showed up that day. Clorinda Delko appeared to have aged twenty years since the last time Calleigh saw her, and his sister, whom Calleigh had only seen in pictures, had remnants of smeared mascara around her eyes. Calleigh could tell that the news had been recent and unexpected.

"M'ija," Clorinda said softly, sounding tired and defeated and just so heartbroken. "How's he doing?"

"I actually haven't gone in yet today," Calleigh confessed. She stood up, feeling her legs buckle weakly under her weight.

Clorinda gave Calleigh a concerned look. "How are you holding up?"

She'd never liked it when people worried or asked her how she was. It made her uncomfortable, most of the time, but usually just inadequate, like everyone was questioning her ability to cope. But the way Clorinda had taken the time out to ask, despite the fact that her son was lying with a swollen brain five feet past the wall, well, that was different.

"I'm okay," she replied, forcing a weak smile. "You should go on in. Just—" Calleigh swallowed, looking down at her feet. "He doesn't know I'm here," she whispered, hoping that the two women would catch the drift and she wouldn't actually have to _ask_ that neither of them mention her presence.

They did, and she wondered if they knew more about what was really going on than she did. When they disappeared behind the door, she slumped back down onto the stiff bench and returned to her waiting. She was getting too damn good at that.

She wasn't sure how much more of this semi-avoidance technique she could handle. When had her life became so pathetic? Catching glimpses of a man who didn't even recognize her, hoping that maybe he'd _sense_ her through the wall (something they've grown good at: sensing; not that any of that mattered anymore). She wanted… she wasn't even sure she knew what she wanted.

Yet she did. She just wanted him back. All of him.

For what, though? If he woke up the next morning, smiled at her and told her that he loved her, she'd push him away again. _We work together_ or _now's not a good time, Eric_. Sternly, coldly. What had trust really meant, if she hadn't been willing to compromise professionalism for something great?

_Two-way street, Calleigh._

Now she'd never know.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft click. She looked up and saw Eric's sister closing the door quietly behind her. Calleigh still hadn't figured out her name, but she noted how much the woman looked like Marisol, her wavy dark brown hair flowing over her pale shoulders.

The brunette smiled tightly at Calleigh. "I just thought I'd give them a moment alone," she explained, motioning toward the closed door.

Calleigh nodded and scooted over on the bench. "Are you Valencia or Isabel?" she asked, internally congratulating herself for remembering Eric's sisters' names. It was probably the most irrelevant thing she'd come up with in a while, but it was something to concentrate on other than the Huge Fucking Life-Changing Problem lying one room over.

"Valencia." She took a seat next to Calleigh and leaned back. "You work with my little brother, huh? Calleigh, right?"

Calleigh nodded once. "He doesn't remember me," she said, as if needing to reinforce that fact with anyone who will listen. She didn't say anything about it, but she was jealous – irrationally so – of Valencia. At least there was recognition there. At least they had childhood moments to draw upon, to reconnect to.

"He won't remember my girls, either," Valencia replied with a quick, humorless laugh.

And in that moment, Calleigh had never felt so selfish. She had been so busy worrying about what this meant for her and Eric's relationship that she didn't even think of anybody else who would be affected. His beloved nieces, _of course_. They'd be heartbroken when they found out that Uncle Eric was 'sick,' and they'd be more than confused when they came to the realization that he didn't remember that visit to the fair or the Spongebob Squarepants plushies he'd bought them.

There wasn't much to say after that; Calleigh humbled into silence, Valencia caught in her own grief. It was awkward, and Calleigh wished that she could have a normal friendly relationship with Eric's sister or carry a normal friendly conversation with her, because she seemed nice, really, but Calleigh didn't trust herself. She feared she'd accidentally reveal too much; now really wasn't the time to tangle messy emotions into the situation.

Calleigh wasn't sure how much time had passed when the door clicked again, but she was thankful that it did. This time, Clorinda's face peeked out.

"Calleigh, he's asking for you," she said with a small grin.

Calleigh tensed immediately. "What? Did you—" She hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but her tone is nothing but that.

"No." Clorinda shook her head and stepped out, holding the door open for Calleigh. "He said, 'tell the pretty blonde who's always outside my room to come in.'"

"How—" But her voice caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. And despite everything, her heart made a little flip-flop. Eric had called her pretty. Before she could revel in the feeling, she cursed herself for letting that innocent comment get to her. Too much false hope.

"M'ija, ándale," Clorinda said, the Spanish slipping easily from her lips. "He's getting impatient."

A comforting hand touched Calleigh's arm. Valencia's. "He might not remember, but he's still the same guy. If he fell for you once, he'll do it again," she said softly.

Calleigh smiled faintly. Valencia's words had surprised her, and she couldn't help but feel a flutter of hope. No matter how many times someone mentioned the fact that Eric had feelings for her that extended past the boundaries of friendship, she still felt that _thing_. Astonishment and anxiety and _exhilaration_.

"Thank you," Calleigh said quietly, even though that didn't come close to verbalizing how much she appreciated hearing that. _Needed_ it, too.

She stood up and took a deep breath to steady herself. She took an uncertain step toward the door, then another. Before walking past Clorinda, who still stood at the doorway, Calleigh looked at her, searching for an unspoken support that only a mother could give; the older woman smiled, and that made Calleigh stand up a little straighter.

She walked in and heard the door close behind her. Aside from a small monitor that beeped steadily every second or two, the room was quiet, too quiet. She looked at the bed, but Eric was staring intently at her, so she looked away again.

"I don't bite," he murmured, a useless attempt at humor.

But it got her feet moving, and she walked over, cautiously. She slid into the chair – the ugly, puke-green chair – and fought the urge to touch him, if only to make sure he was real. She kept her eyes on the white bedspread, occasionally taking a peek at his arm, just enough to see the IV needle taped onto the inside of his wrist.

"I saw my mom and my sister," he said quietly, and there was resignation there.

She nodded briskly. "I know."

"And the doctor. You were right." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

She waved dismissively, still not looking directly at him.

He sighed again, louder and longer this time. "Calleigh."

She looked up, and it felt nice, just to be able to see his face. To her, everything was still familiar, and it was easy to fall back into the lull of his eyes.

He was watching her. "That's your name, right?" But before she could say or do anything in response, he continued, "Calleigh, who are you? I mean, in relation to me." He paused briefly and frowned. "Are you—" He looked away, and a hint of embarrassment flashed across his eyes. "Were we dating or something?"

Her heart made a small leap at that suggestion. "No, we were just—" She chuckled dryly, because she couldn't even explain their relationship to herself. "Just colleagues," she finished, a little more impersonally than she would've liked.

"You're a little too concerned to be just a colleague," he replied, and the seriousness in his voice almost killed her.

She looked away again, feeling that strange compression in her chest. "We were friends," she said carefully.

"That skinny guy who visited me yesterday… Ryan? He said he was my friend, but he doesn't come around as often as you do." He reached up with his hand, the same one connected to the IV, and fanned it awkwardly in front of her face. He stretched a little, reaching to lift her chin, but his arm wasn't long enough. It caught her attention anyway, and she looked up. He smiled. "He doesn't sneak past my door when he doesn't think I'm looking, either," he said, playfulness falling from his lips.

She couldn't help but smile. "I wasn't sneaking," she denied half-heartedly, shaking her head.

"You should've just come in." Quietly, and maybe a little guiltily.

"You told me to leave," she pointed out, frowning.

"I was angry." He sighed and shifted on the bed, grunting when he irritated a particularly tense muscle. "Not at you," he added.

She nodded and tried to smile. "I know," she replied, even though she hadn't known. She had considered various possibilities, of course: that he was just confused and that his defense mechanisms were working full-force, but she hadn't been sure. Not really, anyway.

"Calleigh."

And every time he said her name, it sounded a little less strange, a little more like how she remembered it. Or maybe she wasn't remembering it, so much as relearning it, retraining her ear to this new tone.

He swallowed once, slowly. "We were close, weren't we?"

She wasn't sure how to answer that one, so she didn't say anything at all. Her silence spoke volumes, and he understood.

"I wish I remembered something…" He trailed off, furrowing his brows in concentration. "The doctor said that over time, parts of my memory might return." He paused thoughtfully. "If that's true, the first thing I want returned is you," he murmured softly, closing his eyes.

"Eric—" Her voice cracked, and she couldn't think of _anything_ to counter that argument.

"Tell me something about us," he requested softly, eyes still closed.

She thought about that for a few moments. She wasn't sure if he wanted a favorite memory or to know how they had met or even to know _who they were_, so she settled for something vague, something that outlined the choking guilt she felt.

"If you knew where we would've ended up, you never would've befriended me."

It took him a moment to process, and she briefly wondered if she shouldn't have said something that required so much thought. His brain was probably still swollen. Another brutally selfish thing she'd done today, she noted. This wasn't about her at all.

Finally, minutes of contemplation later, he asked, "Why?"

"Because." She paused tellingly. "Because I push away everyone I love." And somehow, it was easier to say to him when he didn't remember everything they had lived through, everything he had said to her and everything that she had done to him. The comfort of a friend mixed with the safe anonymity of a stranger.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and it startled her how his eyes had changed. "I wish I remembered how it felt to be loved by you," he admitted quietly, openly, with the tender rawness that'd always been her Achilles' heel.

"No," she said sharply, and his eyes pierced hers in confusion. She inhaled. "No, I never could—" She shook her head and smiled sadly. "I'm not good at showing that. I—" She took a quick look around the room, feeling lost. "I don't think you ever felt it."

He studied her for a moment. "You sound like you regret that," he observed.

She wondered when he had turned so perceptive, so rational, so fucking wise. Maybe he had always been this way and she just never noticed? Maybe he wasn't inhibited anymore by the fear of her lashing out at him when he said something she deemed inappropriate or an invasion of privacy. Maybe he'd learned to play dumb, to ignore and pretend, just to keep her happy. Maybe… but she'd never know.

She'd. Never. Know.

It hit her again, _hard_, but at least this time, she could change it. She could change the process, maybe even change the outcome if she tried hard enough.

"I do regret it," she confessed with a slight nod. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. I'm sure I knew. I'm sure I felt it." He smiled then, and she wasn't quite sure what he had to smile about, but he smiled. "Different people show it in different ways. I feel it now."

She cocked her head to the side, trying not to show her surprise. "Do you?"

He nodded. "You wouldn't have come back if you didn't. Not after what I said."

"I—" But she didn't have anything to counter that one either.

"You're scared," he noted quietly, and he never would have said that to her before, not unless he had a death wish.

Her mouth opened instinctively to protest, but she closed it again, reminding herself that this was the only second chance she'd ever get. She nodded. "I'm terrified."

He smiled weakly. "Me too," he said slowly. His hand reached for hers. There was no hesitation there, and Calleigh wondered if he had really been this open before he had met her, before he had been introduced to her disapproval for people who showed emotion too overtly.

She squeezed his hand tightly, holding on to so much more than three fingers and a clammy palm. "If you, uh, if the hospital requires you to have mandatory supervision upon release, I—" She swallowed. "I'm here."

He nodded, and there was something else there. Relief, maybe.

Then, suddenly, a thought dawned on her. How did he know? He was smart, but he wasn't psychic. He wouldn't have known to say any of those things unless…

"Did your mom say something?" Her tone was accusatory again, and she took a slow breath to calm her agitated nerves.

He studied her curiously, and a small, lazy smile appeared on his lips. "She told me not to lose you." His smile widened, edging on cocky. "Nothing more. I figured out the rest," he finished proudly.

"We weren't dating," she said, even though that had already been established. It needed clarification, she thought. But maybe it was her fear speaking again.

"I know," he replied seriously. He paused tellingly. "But one of us wanted to?" It was a guess, a damn good guess, and a request for confirmation.

Her eyes shot up, defensive orbs, but slowly, she let them soften. "I think we both did," she confessed quietly, and it was liberating to say.

He smiled at her admission, almost like he knew. "Someday, I want you to tell me why we never did."

She looked down, a little uncomfortable. A quick flash of impulsive evasion ran through her. "I don't—"

"Someday," he repeated loudly, cutting her off. "When you figure it out," he clarified, smiling tiredly. His eyelids quivered. He closed his eyes and yawned.

She nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and she felt his grip loosen as he forfeited himself to sleep. It was hours before she stood up and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, murmuring against it a quiet promise, one she intended to keep.

"Someday."

_"The heart that truly loves never forgets."  
- Proverb_


End file.
